


Crossroads

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e21 18th and Potomac, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-27
Updated: 2003-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-15 04:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: There's no need for turning back, because all roads lead to where we stand.





	Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Crossroads**

**by:** Baked Goldfish

**Character(s):** Jed/Abbey, Leo, Mallory, Josh, Charlie, Deena  
**Category(s):** Post-Episode  
**Rating:** YTEEN **Disclaimer:** "Crossroads" is by Don McLean. "The West Wing" is owned by NBC, the WB, Aaron Sorkin, John Wells, Thomas Schlamme.  
**Summary:** There's no need for turning back, because all roads lead to where we stand.  
**Spoiler:** 18th & Potomac  


"Jed." 

He pulled her closer to him, the tear streaks still evident on both their faces. "Mm?" 

"When did I stop being called 'doctor'?" It was a shallow question, she knew, on this night of nights. It meant nothing, really, but it was something she could ask that might have a definite answer. It was a safe question, with a safe answer. 

He shrugged under the sheets, the motion bringer her body ever closer to his. "I don't know," he admitted. "I honestly don't know, Abbey." 

She closed her eyes, trying to keep her now-active imagination from playing out scenes, sounds. Trying to lose herself in her husband's warm embrace. "Okay, Jed." 

"I can't remember," he added, almost suddenly. 

Swallowing hard, she wrapped her arms tighter around his waist. "Can't remember what?" she asked lightly. Tried to ask lightly. It was forced, and they both knew it. She was worried; there was no way to hide it. 

"Can't remember when people stopped calling you 'doctor'," he explained, even though he didn't have to. "I just can't." 

"It was probably gradual," she replied, trying to keep him from worrying. "One person started it, and then... " 

"Yeah." 

They lay there, in that pseudo-silence, the soft spring rain crying onto the outside world, onto the windows and walls and the ground below. The collected droplets made rivulets down the bumpy, white exterior, curving and cutting around imperceptible rises in the surface. 

Inside the dark bedroom, Abbey sighed and pulled Jed closer to her. "Baby," she murmured. 

"Mm," he grunted back, his voice too hoarse and thick to say anything else. 

The words rolled around her tongue, in her mouth. Finally, she said, "Nothing. Let's go to sleep, honey." 

Neither of them closed their eyes. 

(~~~~~~~~~~) 

Margaret had finally gone home in a daze (in truth, he'd gotten a ride for her so that she would not run the risk of driving distracted on the dark, wet road), and he retreated back into his own office. It was not dark. Rather, it was far too bright and normal looking for his tastes. He flipped the switch, and half the office was bathed in shadows as half the lights went off. 

It was a slow, weary walk to his desk; but he'd miraculously made it to his chair, where he finally collapsed. Hesitantly, he picked up the phone, only to put it back in its cradle a second later. He glanced at his watch; it was ten-thirty two. Not that late, he surmised, but it felt much, much later. 

He leaned back, and closed his eyes. There was so much... so much that he could not control. Big tobacco was going to win, if only because they have an unlimited budget and a good dozen or so senators and representatives in their back pockets. They could not save Dessaline, because the man who was searching for him had "legitimate charges". The president's thing; the polling numbers alone dictated that there was very little he, on his own, could do to keep it in hand. 

And now... 

The phone was in his hand again, and he dialed in a familiar number. It was picked up after two rings. 

"Hello," came a sleepy voice. 

"Baby," he greeted, trying his damndest to keep the gut-chill out of his voice. "How are you?" 

"Dad?" Mallory looked at the phone funny. "Wha... where are you?" 

"I'm at work," he answered, easing into the conversation a little. He paused for a moment, to formulate his next words. "Baby, there are a few things I need to tell you, but not over the phone." 

He could hear her nod on the other end. "Okay, Dad," she said. "I can drive over there-" 

"No," he interrupted, sitting upright suddenly. He wasn't aware of the slight tremor in his voice when he'd made his interjection. "No, I'll come over, sweetie. I'll be over in about an hour, okay?" 

"Okay, Daddy," she agreed, her voice now quiet and awake with the realization that something was very, very wrong. "Dad?" 

"Yeah, babe?" 

Unsure of what else to say, she merely replied, "I love you." 

There was an audible pause as he let her words hit his muddled mind. "Love you too, sweetie. I'll be over in a little bit." 

He hung up, and stared at the silent handset for a good long moment before hauling himself out of the chair. 

(~~~~~~~~~~) 

He lay on his bed. 

His eyes were staring through the ceiling. 

His hand was on his chest. 

His fingers absently traced the long scar that ran down his sternum. 

The rain thrummed steadily outside on the Georgetown brownstone. He paid it no mind, concentrating only on the somewhat ragged fault that crossed down his skin. 

One car had hit another car, causing a transfer of kinetic energy and a resulting change of directional vectors. Also playing into the equation was the lack of elasticity in the metal chassis of the brand new vehicle, and then there was biology also. The blood alcohol content of the other driver factored into the formula, and when all variables were computed together, the solution came through. 

And so he lay there, with his hand on his chest, his eyes on his ceiling, and his mind on the fact that life is, indeed, just that fragile. One shove one way or the other, one second too early or late, one merest hesitation--*that* was the deciding factor, ultimately. 

Tobacco. That was not the real, true killer out there. Tobacco kills only after many, many cigarettes, many, many dips, many, many inhalations. The real true killer out there was not peer pressure or a need to be popular or even a nicotine addiction. 

It was chance. 

Chance had kept him alive, true; if the bullet had gone just a little in one direction or another, he would have joined his sister and father long ago. But chance had randomly, suddenly taken away another. 

Yes, it was chance that was the truest killer of them all. 

Chance, not choice, had created a mind-eating disease in one of the brightest minds he knew. Chance had determined that one little molecule in one little strand of molecules would cause one huge, major problem--a problem that not only could, would make one bright shining star into a dulled post-nova withered shell, but also a problem that would leave him reviled by the masses whom he'd led with strength, intelligence, and grace. Would leave them all reviled. 

Perhaps chance would dictate that the ceiling that he was staring up at, perhaps it would dictate that that ceiling would fall. Or, perhaps not. It was chance. Perhaps chance would have that falling satellite crash onto his head, giving him a mighty concussion. 

"Nah," he muttered aloud. It sounded grating, novel compared to the steady softness of the May rain, and he quickly shut his mouth. 

And he lay there, with one hand on his chest and his eyes on the dark ceiling above him. 

(~~~~~~~~~~) 

He shut the door quietly, cringing slightly at the click that the tumblers made as the door locked. Glancing at his watch and hitting the button that lit up the face of it, he read the time: eleven o'clock. Deena would be asleep, he hoped. 

He made his way to the closet silently, kicking off his shoes and shaking off his jacket. The tiny apartment was dark, and he strained to find a hanger for his coat. Eventually, he found one, and he hung it back up before heading to the kitchenette for a light, late dinner. 

"Charlie?" 

He looked up from the hastily made sandwich. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" 

"Couldn't," she replied, rummaging the fridge for some sort of near-midnight snack. "I'm anxious about tomorrow's 'ER' episode. It's Sally Fields' last time on the show." 

"Really?" he asked, trying to be interested. "That's cool." He bit into the sandwich, not hungry in the least but realizing the need for food. 

The young woman looked at her older brother from her spot at the refrigerator. "Charlie?" 

"Yeah?" 

"You sound like what you sounded like last summer." She kept her voice steady; in this sense, she was much like her older brother. When situations became more and more stressful, her outward appearance became more and more calm. It was a family trait, one that often left them with strange looks from others who thought that they should be crying, or at least frowning. 

He put the sandwich down and faced her fully. "Yeah." Taking a deep breath, he began, "D, there are a few things I need to tell you. One of them's a secret, and the other... D, sit down." 

She did, and he told her about Mrs. Landingham. Mrs. Landingham, who had been like a grandmother to them both for the two short years that they had known her. She sat there, taking it in patiently, looking calmer by the second. When he was finished, he just looked at her. 

She looked back. "Okay," she said. Just like her brother had. "Charlie... " 

"Yeah?" He took a bite out of his sandwich. 

"What's the second thing?" 

He chewed thoughtfully. Then he swallowed, and regarded her for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak. 

She became still, and stone-calm. 

(~~~~~~~~~~) 

"Abbey." 

"Mm." 

"There's gonna be a time-" 

"Jed." 

"There's gonna be a-" 

"Jed, don't." 

"A time when I won't be able to do this," he finished. He waited for her to respond. No response came, and he added, "I won't be able to hold-" 

"Stop it." 

He half expected her to roll away from him, but instead, she moved even closer to him; vaguely, he wondered if that should even be physically possible. "Abbey, I-" 

"Jed, I don't want to think about that now," she interrupted. "Please, just go to sleep, baby." 

He was silent for a moment. Then: "I can't. Delores is-" 

"I know." It was weary, but not exasperated. Just tired, and sad. "Sweetie, just try and get some sleep?" 

"I can't, Abbey. I just keep thinking-" 

"Then stop thinking." 

"There'll be a day when I will." 

The sheer resignation in his voice silenced her completely, and she lay in his bare arms, her head upon his bare chest, her tears trickling down to splash onto his skin. Eventually, she felt his breathing slow down to such a point as that she knew he was asleep. 

She closed her eyes. Long seconds later, she opened them again, unable to slip into that desired state of unconsciousness. 

(~~~~~~~~~~) 

Mallory glanced out her window at the sound of a car pulling up into her driveway. Her father. She went to open the door and let him in from the sweet rain. 

He stood in her foyer for a moment, water sluicing off his already-soaked suit. The material clung to his skin, and left her with no uncertainty that he was shaking from the damp chill. 

"Wait here a second," she said as she went for a towel and the change of his clothes that she kept in her closet. Those sweats had never come in handy until now. 

When she came back, he had already gotten his shoes and jacket off, and his tie was draped over his forearm. He took the towel and dried off as best as he could before taking the sweats and heading to another room to change. When he emerged again, dressed in sweats, he was greeted with a hug. 

"Daddy, it's good to see you," she said, still in his arms. 

"It's good to see you too, baby," he murmured into her neck, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Let's sit down... Do you have class tomorrow?" 

"Well, yeah," she answered, wondering why he'd ask such an easily answered question. 

"Can you get a substitute at this hour? I mean, can you-" 

She nodded, and he squeezed her hand. "Dad, what's going on? You said there were a couple things you... " Her voice drifted off when she saw that he was preparing to talk. 

"You've got to promise not to tell anyone else," he said. 

"I promise," she said, meaning it fully and completely. 

"Eight years ago, the Pres-" He stopped abruptly. No, he thought. That's how he told his staff. Mallory's not his staff. "Baby, Jed's sick. He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis about eight years ago. I found out last year, right before the State of the Union address. The rest of the staff found out over the past few days." 

She ignored the tears that were stinging her eyes. "Is he... I mean-" 

"He's okay for now. It's not... " He chuckled a little at the words that Bartlet had used to answer the question when Toby had asked it. "It's the good kind." 

Mallory shook her head uncomprehending. "What-what do you mean?" 

He explained it to her, taking comfort in the sheer factualness of it all. He could deal with just the facts, he could deal with keeping the emotions out of it. 

Then he finished, and there was still something else he had to tell her. "Baby, I've got one more thing to tell you." He told her. 

Through the tears, she decided she would have to call for a substitute in the morning. 

(~~~~~~~~~~) 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and checked the alarm clock. It glared in bold red numbers that it was eleven-forty at night. He didn't know why he was sitting up, except for the fact that he did not want to stare up at the ceiling anymore. 

"Mom watches Leno," he muttered to himself. Padding over to the phone, he drug up the phone number from the depths of his memory. He punched it onto the dial pad. It rang and rang and rang, and after the fourth ring, he got the answering machine. He slammed the handset back into the cradle without leaving a message. 

"Damn," he said, leaning against the phone table. "Damn, damn, damn." Suddenly, another number popped into his head, and he hastily dialed that one. "Hello, Sam? Yeah, it's me. You, uh, you wanna go out for a bite to eat or, or something?" He waited for the response. "You do? Okay, I'll call Donna and CJ, you get Toby and Ainsley... " 

He hung up with a slight satisfaction, and called the other two. Chance had nothing to do with the fact that he would not be spending tonight, this night of nights, alone and tired. He pulled on a shirt and tugged on some khakis over his shorts. His wallet went in his back pocket, his keys in his front left. 

On his way out, he stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water. Something in the shadows of the counter caught his eye, and he peered at it for a moment before pulling it out. 

It was a plastic, clear container, one of those tupperware deals. 

"Tupperware?" he asked himself, wondering where and why he'd gotten it. The answer came back to him in a flood, and he popped the lid to inhale the stale scent of the cookies that had once resided in the container. She had made them for him, after he had been released from the hospital, and he had gone through them quickly. Even though she had chided him for eating them so quickly, she had never turned down his request for more. 

Chance and situation had made it so that he had never had the opportunity to return the container to her. 

Quietly, he put the plastic carton back into the shadows, and went to sit down on the couch. His head rested heavily on his hands, and in the back of his mind, some little voice told him he wouldn't be meeting the others until a little later than expected. 

(~~~~~~~~~~) 

"Okay." 

"Yeah." He finished his sandwich. "He's, well, he's had it for eight years." 

"Eight?" 

"Yeah. He's telling the country, I think." He put the plate he'd been using in the dishwasher. "Deena." 

"Yeah?" 

"You okay?" 

No. "Yeah. You?" 

No. "Yeah." 

"Charlie?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I don't think I feel like going to school tomorrow." 

"I can understand that. You can stay home, if you want." 

"You gonna be here?" she asked. 

He shook his head and got a glass of soda. "I've gotta go to work. The President'll be there, so... " 

She nodded. Suddenly, she was no longer calm. "Charlie," she said, her eyes moist. 

He moved to her and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her shoulders shake under his hold, and he let his own tears fall unnoticed onto his cheeks. 

(~~~~~~~~~~) 

The next day, Charlie got up and went to work. Deena slept in, woke up a little later than usual, and avoided the midday news like the plague. 

The next day, Josh appeared at work with what seemed like a slight hangover, except everyone knew for a fact that he had not had a single alcoholic drink the night before. 

The next day, Leo went to work after eating breakfast with Mallory, who decided that she was not going in to school, and instead opted to grade homework assignments and quizzes from the comforts of her own home. 

The next day, Jed woke up and stopped being Jed and started being President Bartlet, and Abbey woke up and stopped being Abbey and started being The First Lady. 

The next day, life, in it's inimitable way, went on. 

-end- 


End file.
